Falconry
by manic-intent
Summary: The art of falconry, chess, and gentlemen's games. [Slash warning, Beckett x Norrington]. ..Complete..
1. Manning

Author's note: Plotbunny born after the song 'You're Beautiful' got lodged in my head, after writing previous sparrington fic. Apologies for inconsistent accents and, well, other inconsistencies. :3 Chess scene entirely thanks to roommate, who is a fantastic player (dialogue went something like "If you were an evil member of the East India Company what sort of opener to a chess game would you use? Would you be black or white?"). Falconry will be a short piece, perhaps in 3 parts.

Chapter 1

Manning

Manning: The first step of falconry – getting the bird in question used to its handler, via patience and feeding, until it is willing to eat from the handler's fist.

"The heart of Davy Jones."

Lord Cutler Beckett's expression of surprise was fleeting – quickly shuttered under a mask of aristocratic disdain, his lips pressing into a flat line, as if annoyed at possible resulting stains on his mahogany desk. Cold eyes studied the pulsing bag, then the man who had brought it. Filthy, bone-weary, and wild now, his walk a swagger, James Norrington was a far cry from the Commodore he had been, and he knew it – there was something of self-mockery in the way he wore that pitiful version of his brocade coat.

"Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in."

Norrington smirked, and inclined his head in a gesture of mock-acknowledgment. Mercer glanced at his master, in a silent question – then relaxed a little when Beckett gave a slight shake of his head.

"Take this man away," he instructed the guard, "And have him cleaned up before showing him into my presence again." Distaste. "And get the butler to do something about the mud he's tracked all over the rug."

Irritatingly, the other man didn't even protest as he was taken by the arm and pulled out of the room. Beckett waited until the footsteps had died down, before delicately picking up the bag, and studying the heartbeat with scientific curiosity. "Fascinating."

"Aye, not natural, that, sir," Mercer glanced at the bag, even as Beckett settled back in his plush chair.

"I didn't mean this fine example of the paranormal," Beckett arched an eyebrow. "I meant the estimable James Norrington."

"Ah," Mercer's emotionless, almost reptilian eyes turned down towards the heavy door. "Want me to take care of things, sir?"

Beckett smiled again, though this time the quirk to his lips suggested at a certain (battered, but still surviving) sort of dry humor. "Have you ever indulged in falconry, Mister Mercer?"

"No sir. Lord's sport, that." Mercer said, the tone of his voice implying that he didn't exactly follow Beckett's apparent non sequitur, but was too used to the other man's occasional odd moods to be surprised by it.

"There's a certain sort of… pleasure in hunting, with a trained raptor," Beckett took a ring of keys from one heavily brocaded pocket, and opened a drawer at the desk, where he deposited the heart, then locked it again. "But there is also as much pleasure, in my opinion, in taming one to hunt from one's arm."

"Can't say I'd know, sir," Mercer's reply was diplomatic. Stabbing merchant captains, small talk, escorting inconvenient marriageable young ladies out of the offices, to informing the butler that Lord Beckett did not enjoy eating pheasant and would definitely not appreciate any more dinners of said fowl, were all the same to him, and he apparently decided that acquiring exotic birds could fall under the wide umbrella of his undefined job. "Perhaps we can order one from the next ship headed to England, sir."

Beckett blinked, and then he chuckled softly. "Good man. But you need not trouble yourself as to that matter, Mister Mercer." Slender hands steepled in front of his nose, and his eyes became faraway, calculating. "Don't you think that Mister Norrington rather reminds one of a hawk?"

It was Mercer's turn to blink, but the man was typically unflappable. Possibly confidence born of how he didn't need to resort to guns to efficiently and quickly end one's life in the space of time another person could comment on the balmy Caribbean weather. "Couldn't say, sir. But he is called the 'Pirate Hunter', around these parts."

"Quite." Beckett said thoughtfully. "A hunter." A smirk. "Perhaps my time in this terribly backward little port so far from England can be better spent, after all."

--

"Better." Beckett barely gave Norrington a glance when the man was shown into his office again, turning back to his correspondence. The ex-Commodore, though not re-introduced to his old dress uniform, cut a striking figure in respectable clothing – dark brown coat with silver-embroidered cuffs, cravat, pale gray-blue vest, light brown breeches and fine leather boots, washed, tangled-hair combed back and caught by a black ribbon, shaved.

A wry grin. "Thanks."

Silence, while Beckett continued going through his correspondence. The (now permanent) office that the East India Company had appropriated was in the form of a mansion with a fine view of the harbor and the sea, which also housed staff and guards. The wood-paneled ground was intermittently decorated by Persian carpets, the walls with framed oil paintings of England and her territories – the furniture was expensive, dark mahogany. There was even the odd suit of full armor now and there, a nightmare to polish and dust, embossed with the logo of the East India Company. All calculated to give the image of English global trade dominance. Power, influence, wealth.

Norrington didn't seem impressed, or even put out by the fairly rude way in which Beckett was making him wait – green eyes flickered out to the harbor, looking over the docked ships. A faint twitch at his jaw, as he studied the ones outfitted for Naval use. Mercer stood behind Beckett's chair, apparently studying the large map of the world painstakingly painted on the wall.

"I'm afraid that until your pardon can be properly processed over in England, you can't officially return to your position," Beckett commented finally, as he signed yet another set of dispatches. There was a soft intake of breath before him, but he was careful not to look up.

"Naturally." Norrington said, his voice neutral.

"And, as you know, the East India Company is not, precisely, affiliated with the King's Navy, and so technically has no influence over the reappointment of, say, resigned Commodores."

No intake of breath this time, only a dry, "No technical influence, or no real influence?"

"Technical," Beckett agreed. "But it is an important distinction."

"What can you do, then?" Blunt. Just the faintest edge of impatience.

"Exercising our real influence must always be done with care and much forethought," Beckett set the papers aside, and started on the next set of forms. "As we do have our enemies in Parliament."

Norrington was silent, coldly indicating that he knew that hadn't been an answer to his question, per se.

"And as such, I will need proof that you are still of good and decent character, and still possess the requisite ability, to fulfill your previous vocation," Quill into inkbottle, delicate script in a curt reply to a missive.

"Proof," Norrington repeated, rolling the word in his mouth. "And how would you suggest I go about providing this… proof?"

Another long silence, marked only by the sound of the quill nib over paper. "By reassuming, though in an unofficial manner, some of your previous responsibilities," Beckett said mildly. "I have received word that your work in the fort is currently handled by one Lieutenant Forscythe, transferred here temporarily from Kingston, and he is quite overwhelmed."

There was a barely perceptible wince. Apparently Norrington was also familiar with the name. "Unofficial until you are satisfied that I am… capable?" a drawl. Didn't miss much, this hawk.

"Capable as a Commodore, _and_ as a gentleman of society," Beckett smiled, catlike. "At the moment, _Mister_ Norrington, your very mannerisms and posture remind one of a pirate." More writing. "Of course, if you so choose, you could instead become, immediately, a captain of your own ship, as a privateer for King and Country, and a free man – but not, precisely, part of the Navy."

That earned a scowl. Norrington didn't straighten. "When do I start with this… proof?"

"Unfortunately, your original residence has been seized by the Crown, and sold," Beckett said, as if he hadn't heard the question. "Therefore, at the moment, you would have to take rooms in these offices." A glance at Mercer, who inclined his head, glanced at Norrington, and then left the room to make arrangements.

A frown, then a tight nod. Sarcasm. "Thanks."

"Bought and paid for," Beckett replied, not even needing to look at the drawer.

Another nod, with no comment.

Letter finished, Beckett asked, almost as an afterthought, "By the way, what happened to Sparrow?"

"Dead," Norrington supplied. No expression, either. "Went down with his ship."

Next missive, new letter. Beckett concealed the twinge of disappointment that the news brought. He had rather been looking forward to being the ruin of Jack Sparrow, personally, after the humiliation that had been visited upon him so many years ago. And now that infuriating creature did not even have the good grace to survive his encounter with the _Flying Dutchman_ with his legendary luck and wit. _Disappointing, Sparrow, very disappointing_. "The compass?"

A blink. "You have the heart."

"An admirable item of curiosity. But not precisely what the Letter of Marque and the pardon were worth."

"What did you want the compass for?" Curiosity that overwhelmed caution.

Beckett smirked, allowing himself a sidelong glance at the other man. "Now that information, was _not_ bought and paid for."

Norrington glanced back at the harbor, at the fort, then back at Beckett. "You didn't say when I had to start."

"Patience, Mister Norrington," Beckett drawled, enjoying the faint grimace that this reminder of his status brought the proud man. Definitely a bird of prey – perhaps even a true hawk, the Earl of birds. But not an eagle. "Take a day off. Talk to your friends – you _do_ have friends around Port Royal, don't you? Your work will commence tomorrow."

Norrington narrowed his eyes, then he smirked, and bowed. "By your leave, Lord Beckett."

"Mister Mercer will no doubt inform you later as to your newest living arrangements," Beckett said dismissively, waving his quill vaguely in Norrington's direction. Receding footfalls informed him that the man had managed to take the hint, with amusing and surprising dignity.

--

Governor Swann was an exceedingly tiresome man, especially where it concerned his precious daughter, but he was surprisingly perceptive under all the layers of brocade finery. He frowned when Beckett had him brought to the office to discuss the matter of Norrington's semi-reinstatement to his Royal Navy responsibilities. "It's somewhat irregular. But there's no need for this whole business of my approval for this… this matter. I can give you my assurance that James is fully capable, despite his recent trials. I'd even be willing to take responsibility for a recommendation to England."

"Very noble," Beckett said, now studying the map – not so much a work of art but as a constant reminder to himself. Principles, scale, power. "But unnecessary."

A snort – Governor Swann's aforementioned perceptiveness coming into play. "It is difficult, Lord Beckett, to toy with that sort of man. Especially for sport. And no doubt he knows what you are doing."

"It wouldn't be any sort of sport at all if he did not," Beckett observed, his eyes seeking out England, on the map, then Bombay. Places of power.

A sigh. "You have my approval, then."

"That goes without saying."

"Then what did you call me here for? Formality?" A faint hint of irritation now despite the practiced façade of someone versed in politics.

"How long have you known Mister Norrington?" Beckett asked, turning around to look at Governor Swann. Who didn't look the least bit surprised at the question. Politician.

"All his life. I knew his father, over in England – our wives were close friends. James grew up with my daughter. Why?"

"Information," Beckett replied, mildly. "To be bought and paid for." He picked a dispatch off his desk, and handed it to Governor Swann. He looked at it, and then glanced sharply back up. Information about the lovely Miss Elizabeth Swann, and her current whereabouts.

"What do you want to know?"

--

"What's this?" Norrington frowned.

The mahogany desk had been cleared of inkbottle, dispatches, paperweights and quills. There was a simple chess set wrought of fine oak – paler wood made up the white side, and the details of each piece had been lovingly picked out, down to the strands on the manes of the knights. Another cushioned chair had been added to the desk, facing Beckett.

"Chess," Beckett said dryly. "Care to choose a side?"

Norrington gave him a Look that said he didn't particularly understand Beckett's motivations, he was busy, and he was getting tired of incomprehensible little English Lords, but he sat down in the chair indicated. "You choose."

"White." Beckett decided, after only a moment's hesitation. Fingers delicately picked up the third pawn, and moved it up two squares. Norrington arched an eyebrow, and moved a black pawn, mirroring it from his side.

A second white pawn, from before the Queen. The black pawn, before the King, one square. Beckett smirked. "Anglo-Dutch defense."

"English opening," Norrington shrugged. The pawn before the rightmost white knight was moved a square. The black knight shifted behind the two black pawns. Time passed, unnoticed, the game only briefly interrupted by Mercer with a tray of tea and biscuits. At one point there was a hastily stifled oath outside, as somebody collided into somebody else – unnoticed, ignored, like the stiflingly hot costume of a Lord of the East India Company, and the cooling tea. Bishops, Knights, pawns.

His hands clasped before his lips, brow drawn in a frown of concentration, Norrington was, for the lack of a better word, entrancing. An offending lock of brown hair that kept falling over his eyes was absently pushed back, after the third time, blown at, then ignored. A rare man, Beckett decided, hiding his smirk. A fine hawk. The occasional hesitation and little scowl at perceived mistakes told of a lack of practice at a game that had been his childhood passion. Beckett, however, was not exactly in his best form, either, having only played casually in various gentlemen's clubs, back in London.

It was no surprise when they drew, at least to him. Norrington leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, exhaling. Lips twitched into a smile, and then the man froze for a moment as he remembered himself. Suspicion in the green eyes, and no smile now. "How did you know?"

"What do you think?" Beckett countered, as he reached in a drawer and picked up the engraved lacquer box that housed the pieces. Mercer had outdone himself, somehow finding such a beautiful set in Port Royal.

"You asked Governor Swann."

A slight nod, as pieces were placed into their velvet beds. Norrington watched him quietly for a moment, then helped, picking up pieces lined on the side of the wooden board.

When the box was clicked shut, Norrington asked, more softly, "Why?"

Beckett shrugged. "I used to play in London. Nobody here seems to."

The ex-Commodore snorted, showing he didn't believe (and rightfully so) that Beckett's motives were that simple. "And I'm to accept that that's all?"

Becket smirked. "It's up to you, Mister Norrington. Same time again, tomorrow?"

"Some of us have work to do," Norrington replied dryly. "Work which, I do believe, was supposed to 'prove' my capability."

"Do tell me that you are familiar with the concept of time management," Beckett placed the box on the playing board, neatly, for Mercer to collect afterwards.

A thin smile. Acknowledgment, of leashes.

--

By all reports, the administrative disaster in the fort was admirably sorted out in less than a week, though Mercer occasionally reported seeing candles lit in Norrington's room at the East India Company mansion late into the night. Diligent even in the face of charity, it seemed. Norrington also made no mention whatsoever of what he had done after being picked up by the _Black Pearl_, and Beckett didn't ask. They were careful with titles – _Lord _Beckett, _Mister_ Norrington – and did not keep score for the chess games. Sometimes Beckett chose black. Sometimes Norrington played aggressively. Beckett often opted for central control, with pawns. Norrington preferred developing knights.

Mercer found, through some stroke of genius, a game clock, and the games became shorter, more controlled, and more frequent. Two, three games a day, instead of one. Beckett found that he was enjoying them far more than he should – they made his mind work, and he could, if briefly, forget about the requirements of his occupation.

"Check."

Beckett moved a bishop.

Mercer reported that Norrington still had nightmares. Where he would murmur the names of his now-deceased subordinates. Sometimes he would sob. The ex-Commodore avoided the daytime bustle of Port Royal streets, and especially the districts where the relatives of his men lived – willing, if need be, to walk a large detour, even to be late for his next appointment

Trapped, by the white Queen. A smirk. Green eyes gleamed. Beckett took the loss with good grace. "Another?"

--

Another week and even Lieutenant Forscythe was addressing Norrington as 'Commodore'. There had been a few half-hearted attempts by the man in question at correcting this incorrect perception of his status – and he still carefully wore civilian clothing (provided for by the East India Company), but eventually he stopped, and even acknowledged the title. Matters of patrol schedules, relations with the Naval presence at Kingston, and complaints of piracy were now all referred to the Commodore's office, which was slowly filling up with paperwork, if still in a Spartan version of its former dignity – not much more than a desk, three chairs (one stacked full of dispatches, the other holding books of Naval guidelines) and several cabinets.

They now played three games a day, except for Fridays, where they played blitz chess – fifteen minute, frenetic games. Mercer no longer brought tea and biscuits on Fridays, after the offerings were always summarily ignored. Exhausting ends to the week.

Norrington tended to forget himself more and more often in the flush of triumph. Faint smiles.

Beckett noticed that sometimes they would be watched, with bemusement, by passers-by at the door. The very formally dressed Lord Beckett, dueling the Commodore in civilian clothing, at a gentleman's game.

Norrington's posture improved.

--

Often, Beckett would unlock his drawer and look at the pulsing bag, when he was alone. He hadn't exactly formulated a good plan of what to do with it – he knew what it was for, of course, after the outlandish reports from the men assigned to following the legendary and now deceased Captain Jack Sparrow. But it wasn't really what he had been looking for.

Still, that damned compass was likely now in the maw of a giant sea-monster, along with its equally damnable owner, and Lord Beckett was no stranger to disappointment, or indeed, to contingency plans.

And the heart was, actually, a decent enough replacement for his purposes. Doing something about the regrettable piracy about the region would be predictable, but too mundane. Perhaps something about the furtherance of East India Company interests, via only protecting their ships? No, still too predictable. Definitely something that he would be assumed to do.

Even if there was to be profit, Beckett detested being seen as conventional. Perhaps it was pride.

--

"What now?" Governor Swann asked, his tone long-suffering. In his hands he held a missive, which reported that his daughter had last been seen in Jamestown, in the company of her fiancé and a man who should have been long dead. His face was drawn with a father's worry.

Beckett told him. Information, bought and paid for.

--

Norrington arched an eyebrow when Beckett indicated that he close the door. The chessboard was not set, and sat in a corner of the desk, the box atop it. Instead, there was a white bone-china bowl that held a number of ripe grapes, wine-dark against the porcelain. He sat down in his usual seat, hands on the rests, and waited.

Beckett watched him for a while, his expression unreadable, then he got to his feet, all fluid grace, and stalked over to Norrington's side of the table, green eyes following his movements without comment. He leaned against the edge of the table, crinkling his brocade coat, and picked up a grape.

Norrington smirked as the fruit was held before his lips, and ate delicately, bitter seeds and all. A warm tongue flicked juice off Beckett's fingers.


	2. Training

Author's note: I'm better at dialogue, so I thought it could be an interesting challenge to write a (twisted, dark) relationship based so much on silence. Not sure if Beckett's white horse is a stallion. Didn't check. Also, I don't have a gloves fetish. Serious!

Chapter 2

Training

Training – the hawk must now learn to come to its master for food. It must be bound with a creance to a perch, and the trainer is to hold meat in his fist. Only when the bird comes to him without hesitation can the next step begin.

"What the devil is all that racket?" Beckett muttered. The corridors of the Port Royal fort on the second floor were built in a regrettable manner – high, arched ceilings and thin arrow-slit windows tended to amplify and echo sound. The harsh sounds of metal shearing against metal. Gunshots.

Mercer tilted his head for a moment, then suggested, "Fencing, sir. Want me to take care of it?"

The assassin's master smiled faintly, entertaining the brief, if amusing, image of stilettos and red coats shading a deeper crimson. "Sadly enough, I don't believe His Majesty will appreciate employees of the East India Company 'taking care of' members of the Royal Navy, deservedly or not."

Beckett was nursing a headache from too little sleep – the East India Company's Barbados representative, Lord Elmtree, had just arrived, and society dictated that Lord Beckett was the one to entertain. Brandy and cigars, late into the night, and far, far too much small talk.

And now he had to handle some annoying administrative detail in Port Royal's fort, over the escort of warships that Lord Elmtree had 'just happened' to bring along with him and dock in the wrong side of the harbor. Beckett had decided to go himself, out of curiosity, instead of sending some minion – observing the hawk in his natural habitat, as it were – but was now regretting it. Copiously.

"All right, sir," Mercer replied, equably, and then glanced again at his master's obvious suffering. "Perhaps sir should take the day off."

"Tempting, but impossible at the moment, with the workload," Beckett rubbed his temple. The wig was too hot. The coat, far too damned hot. Damned Caribbean weather. A turn of the corridor, and, blessedly, a balcony. Beckett stepped quickly into it, taking deep breaths of the sea breeze. Mercer waited, patient, holding the large folder of necessary forms to his side. Emotionless eyes took in their surroundings with a few flickers, and then he stood, back to the wall, at an angle to be able to observe the corridor, so habitual to him now that it was almost unconscious.

Beckett realized the source of his irritation was at the courtyard. Did the Navy have to train, at this very hour? While it was still so damned early in the morning? Muttering darkly under his breath, he watched them – toy soldiers in bright uniforms, playing at guns and swords. And frowned.

Dancing a circle around his opponent, in a perfect harmony of grace and menace, was Norrington. The soldier he faced knew his opponent was stronger – clear from his poise, and the halfhearted attempts at offense. Norrington easily parried a stab at his shoulder, and stepped back, lips moving – probably in some sort of lecture. Legs together, one hand back, the other a straight line melded with steel to a point – perfect stance. The soldier's shoulders slumped, and the blade was lowered. Norrington gestured at another.

Guns in a sharp retort, far in another corner of the enclosed courtyard – target practice with inoffensive painted boards. Beckett forgot his irritation at the noise as well as his headache as he watched Norrington, with feints, parries and deflections, take his next opponent apart. The Turner blade (returned, with some veiled jibes, to its former owner a day ago) snaked over a hastily constructed guard, and tapped the poor man's shoulder. Norrington was speaking again, no doubt to those watching – Beckett could only catch faint snatches of half-finished words, sent up by the breeze.

He was going to be late for his appointment.

He didn't care.

Typical. He shook his head a little to clear it. An important aspect of falconry was that the trainer not be mesmerized by the raptor's beauty and graceful strength. There should be respect, but the power balance had to be firmly in favor of the master.

Just before he looked away, Norrington glanced up. A blink of surprise, then a smirk.

--

Beckett opened by advancing the white pawn before his King, two squares. Norrington arched an eyebrow, and moved the left knight. The pawn moved again, one square. The black knight, to its left. Another white pawn, from before the Queen, two squares. Hesitation, then a black pawn from the Queen. Another white pawn, from the bishop, next to the second. A pretty little frown, and the black knight moved back before the line of pawns. The game clock's ticking was loud in the silence, the taps on either of its stops as either man finished his turn pigeonholing their time.

"Ambitious," Norrington murmured. "Reckless."

Beckett's smile was sharp, but he didn't reply. Startled by this change in play – Beckett was often, outside of Friday games, cautious, preferring to develop his game slowly – Norrington turned defensive, and realized his mistake only too late. A strong white center had to be attacked early. Beckett pushed the advantage, and won easily. Norrington chuckled.

"Again."

Pieces were rearranged, and Beckett opened with the same move. This time, Norrington was prepared tactically. Black crushed the line – but a slip and a counter resulted in a draw. The Commodore – more of a Commodore now, not an ex-Commodore – leaned back in the chair, tapping at his lip as he frowned at the pieces. Beckett reset the game clock, then the playing board.

"I should have won that round," Norrington said, finally.

Beckett shrugged. "Why?"

A blink. "You opened with the same moves."

"I knew you were anticipating that," Beckett replied, dryly. "I merely had to keep one step ahead of you. After all, I knew that you knew that I was about to use the same move."

A snort. "You still lose games."

"If I won all the time there would be no entertainment at all in playing against you."

"Is that what you're doing? Entertaining yourself?" A veiled question.

Beckett chose to ignore it. "Certainly. Playing chess isn't part of my duties. It is, however, an amusing intellectual exercise, especially with a worthy opponent."

Silence again. Norrington's gaze didn't move from the board. Beckett drank a sip of his tea.

"Again."

This round, Norrington won, but on time.

--

Dinner was now a closed-door exercise in patience, always held in a private function room in the East India Company mansion. A square room with a square carpet, smaller than Beckett's bedchambers, with a round oak table, and four plush chairs. A heavily curtained window, a door, and a framed picture of an artist's impression of Buckingham Palace. Mercer would serve them, two trays, and then step outside and close the door behind him. Beckett would eat, Norrington would watch, straight-backed in his chair, a faint quirk to his mouth that could have been wry amusement or self-mockery, and possibly both.

Bread to be torn into small bite-sized pieces before being buttered. The soupspoon to be rasped against the side of bone china. Only one set of cutlery, one glass for wine.

When Beckett mopped his lips clean with a white napkin, he would seat himself on the arm of one of the chairs to either side of the Commodore – it varied. Slender fingers kept firmly on the rests of his own seat, as Norrington was fed. Bite-sized pieces of bread. Cooling soup. Clinically sliced meat. Peas pushed into a fork. Both men would be expressionless, or mostly – sometimes that little quirk would appear, especially if Norrington thought the other man wasn't watching.

An exercise in patience, and in domination. Lessons in power.

Then Beckett would clap, twice, sharply, and Mercer would clear the trays. Norrington would slouch in his chair, and watch Beckett settle back in his seat and take coffee, and petit fours. It became a ritual that marked the end of each day. After the second time it occurred, Norrington arrived at the mansion himself, the next day onwards, on time, without any prompting from Mercer.

Bitter liquid drained, Beckett would leave the room for his study, to do some reading before bed. He never looked back.

Mercer once commented about the arrangement, afterwards, when Beckett was studying a book discussing the relative physiological differences between the natives of the New World and the Europeans. "Surprised he agrees to it, sir."

A half-smile, perhaps at the comment, or at the lurid descriptions of native fertility rituals. "Raptors must be trained to feed only from the hand of their trainers, Mister Mercer. Or they may develop erroneous assumptions about their state of freedom."

"He's a proud one, sir." Mercer in his function as a bodyguard, wariness. Suggesting that some point, something in Norrington might snap – with potentially lethal consequences.

"Hawks are proud birds." Beckett turned a page. "The idea is not to break their spirit, merely to tame it. The former is far easier than the latter. There is a relevant distinction. Breaking the bird's spirit will simply remove any enjoyment to be derived from the sport."

--

Beckett took his white stallion Caesar out for a ride some afternoons on the leveled ground at the only stables in Port Royal. A canter around the paddock, and Caesar would be impatient for the large field that served as a racecourse, snorting and whinnying, obviously missing the rolling fields of England. The fine animal disliked rocky, hot Port Royal, making its displeasure evident by occasionally butting its owner in the shoulder with a warm muzzle upon dismounting. Sometimes Beckett would stroke its fetlock in an apology.

Today he felt like indulging – Lord Elmtree had departed to places unknown, and hopefully for good – there was a stiff, cooling breeze, and clouds about the sun. He guided the horse to the fenced-off jumps course attached to the racecourse – two canters about the field to warm up, then deft control – knees pushed into warm horseflesh. Muscles bunched, a perfect leap, and a graceful landing, hind legs clearing the pole of the first jump easily, long white tail a silky pennant. Caesar snorted as he pulled at the bit, obviously in disdain at the lack of challenge. He was from the stock of champions, thoroughbred, and was worth a fortune – his line had been with Beckett's family for as long as the man could care to trace it, and in the past, had occasionally saved some ancestors from bankruptcy. Taking him away from the stables in England had been a decision edged in some guilt. In Port Royal, Caesar would be very unlikely to sire any foals worthy of his blood.

As he rode Beckett thought briefly on the amusements of gentlemen's games. The training of his (unequivocally his) hawk had, somewhere down the line, turned from being a mere exercise in power and a distraction from boredom into something edged, rather dangerously, with carnal lust. The Commodore was pretty, to be sure, even when deprived of his dress uniform (or perhaps because of it), with handsome features and those entrancing green eyes – but Lord Beckett knew very clearly the risk of ruin. Had, in fact, visited the selfsame ruin, of scandal and exposure, on rivals, in the past.

He also knew that it was entirely possible that the other man could be playing him – Norrington was obviously intelligent enough to be doing so. It really depended on whether he had the audacity to use such a gamble, which could also so easily be his own, final ruin. So far, Beckett hadn't actually done anything that could be permanently damaging to his own career – but it could only be a matter of time, with the temptation.

The question now was whether to simply continue in the original vein of action, cease altogether, or change the game, somewhat. Caesar's unquestioning obedience and well-bred ability freed his mind to think.

Another jump, and brief, fierce joy in the fleeting impression of flight. Beckett was dressed almost casually, in riding gear – no wig, black hat, blue jacket, brown jodhpurs and breeches, black boots – it nearly made the heat bearable. The riding crop was unnecessary. A faster circuit, Caesar's interest pricked by the pace, but the jumps still easily, smoothly performed. Another snort, and a reproachful shake of the proud head. Its master made a mental note to do something about the deplorable state of the riding grounds – it was a telling sign, when his animal was so obviously bored.

Beckett slowed the canter to a sedate trot, back towards the paddock. Mercer met his eyes briefly from where he leant against the fence of the racecourse, and jerked his head to the side briefly. Beckett glanced in the indicated direction, and smirked. There was a clear line of sight from the paddock to the fort. Sunlight caught in a brief, tiny flash, on what could have been an inappropriate use of a Naval-issue scope.

--

A soiree held in the honor of the representative from South Carolina, Lord Senders, his lovely wife, and his lovely daughters. Or so Beckett would say, if confronted with the need to provide a description. His personal opinion was something more disparaging, but that tended to be the case for most people, so it didn't reflect too badly on Lord Senders and his… amusing… brood. It was hosted, thankfully, by Governor Swann (through Beckett's private request, so he wouldn't have to bother himself with arrangements) and at the Swann residence, where Miss Swann's absence was explained as a romantic honeymoon, properly chaperoned, of course, bringing flutters to ladies' fans.

Mercer wore his 'scowling face', in respect of Beckett's decision that he didn't feel like entertaining any fluffy female company just before he definitely had to entertain some stuffy male sort (in endless cigar-infused discussions on the slave trade, cotton and the VOC, no doubt). As such, Beckett was free to observe human nature in relative peace, and enjoy the caviar-related hors d'oeuvres, not to mention buffer himself up with enough champagne so as to be able to endure previously mentioned late night discussions.

And so it was to their considerable surprise that Beckett was approached by a blushing flower of English womanhood known by the regrettable name of Lady Everetta Senders, one of said daughters of the South Carolina East India Company representative. "Lord Beckett, I am so pleased to finally make your acquaintance. Father has spoken often and well of you."

Beckett reassessed his opinion on fluffy womanhood, especially those slightly taller than him – sometimes, despite an inordinate amount of lace, pearls and terribly feminine robin egg's blue dresses, they tended to be sharp as knives. He made himself smile, even as he brushed the proffered, gloved hand with lips, curtly. "I assure you it is my pleasure, Lady Senders."

"Oh, please call me Everetta," a flutter of the fan, "My mother is known as Lady Senders, and it wouldn't do to have any confusions."

Beckett grimaced inwardly. With this sort of offering, society declared that he had to return the politeness in kind, unless he could flatter his way out of it – but that in itself had dangers. "'Lady Senders' seems far more appropriate for one of your distinguished comportment."

Everetta blushed, and fanned herself. "You are too kind, Lord Beckett."

He was fast growing bored. "How do you find Port Royal, Lady Senders?"

As she nattered on about the weather and the beautiful view, Beckett let his mind and eyes wander – and noticed one of the latecomers. A certain Commodore, dressed for the occasion, the dark blue theme of his clothes even managing to impart the suggestion of rank in the King's Navy. Very dashing, and already attracting feminine company.

Everetta followed his glance, and the fan fluttered again. "Oh! Commodore Norrington. I heard he only recently returned to Port Royal."

"Yes, he was on… business," Beckett said, taking a sip of his champagne, pointedly not looking at said dashing Commodore.

"I suppose you share management of Port Royal with him, Lord Beckett?" A playful smile, suggesting at feminine ignorance.

Appearances were definitely not to be believed. He settled for a neutral reply. "It can be said so, yes. Since he handles the Naval interest in Port Royal, while I am merely in charge of the new East India Company foothold."

"Not merely, I'm sure," Everetta fanned herself again.

"Ah, but us East India Company Lords tend to be terribly full of themselves, so any correction I may care to give could be circumspect," Lord Beckett countered, with a smile that fell just short of humor. Everetta, however, chose to laugh.

"Quite so. Sometimes my father takes his work far too seriously." Another flutter of the fan. "Perhaps I could prevail on you for an introduction, Lord Beckett?"

Beckett would have gladly foisted off any feminine attention for the night on anybody, due to his growing foul mood, including his hawk, and possibly even Mercer. "Of course."

With the lady on his arm, he approached Norrington, who was engaged in a lively discussion with Lord Obens – one of the so-called merchant princes – about the safety of trade routes to New Amsterdam. A brief opinion on the usefulness of North as compared to South Carolina, and he fulfilled his task. "Commodore Norrington, Lord Obens – Lady Everetta Senders."

That little frown, then a gleam of amusement. "Pleased." A brush of lips on a gloved hand provoked a flash of ire that surprised Beckett himself. Not hidden quickly enough for his purposes – the gleam turned speculative. Beckett retreated back to Mercer.

--

Friday's game of blitz chess was briefly observed by the Senders family, who then retired, bored, when neither player cared to acknowledge their existence. Regrettably rude, of course, but Beckett had already previously warned them, pleading obsession with the chessboard. He used the English opening for four games, lost two, then set a trap on the fifth game to win it within twelve minutes. Norrington chuckled, and changed sides.

Now Norrington opened with the English opening for four games, lost three, and drew on the fifth game with time. He arched an eyebrow in challenge. Beckett dipped his own head, briefly, took white, and opened with the Queen's Gambit, won the first, was declined in the second, and won the third. Norrington changed sides. His Gambit was always accepted – two wins, one draw. No longer playing to win – not even Beckett was really sure what they were playing for, if at all. The intellectual exercise had just turned metaphysical.

Given perhaps another week, Beckett knew Norrington would likely have improved to become a better player than he was, at least on blitz Fridays. The man thought easily on his feet, made good spur of the moment decisions, and was usually able to evade traps while fighting for central command. Beckett, on the other hand, was better at longer games, where there was time to plan, to feint.

Norrington closed his eyes and leaned back when Beckett put the pieces back into their box, his hands as always primly on the rests, the bound hair hanging over the backrest. He glanced back, sharply, when he heard a drawer being pulled open.

The chess set and the lacquer box had been placed to the edge of the table. Beckett had taken out a creance – a long line, a leash, used in hawking or falconry – black, neatly coiled, and placed it on the center of the table. He didn't smile.

The Commodore looked down at the creance, up at the ceiling, back down at Beckett, then out of the window, towards the fort and the harbor. He dipped his head, and smirked, not meeting Beckett's eyes, then picked it up.

Norrington could now often be seen, when in thought, dipping his hand briefly into the pocket of his coat. It was widely assumed that perhaps the Commodore had, due to the trying nature of his secret business before partial reinstatement, taken to using snuff.

--

Beckett studied trade routes and patterns of piracy after dinner, occasionally making notes. Sometimes he would think about the heart, locked in his drawer. Maximum profit, minimum risk, was the best route to take. Or was it maximum profit, maximum enjoyable risk? Difficult to decide, when the equation involved green-eyed pretty Commodores.

Discreet enquiries (read: Mercer) proved that despite appearances and his brief, regrettable slip at the soiree, the Senders family was entirely unaware of any possible personal relationship that he could have with Norrington, and had pegged them as friends at best, allies at worst. Thankfully, for the rest of their stay, the feminine company revolved, firmly, around the Commodore.

It was probably the title. Beckett was relieved that the East India Company had never thought of encouraging its Lords to give themselves dashing titles. The forbidding aspect of being addressed as 'Lord' Beckett suited him fine.

--

Next Friday, after the pieces were cleared, Norrington reached into a pocket and took out a glass vial of oil, which he placed on the table, exactly where the creance had been. His lips didn't smile, but his eyes did – in challenge. Something darker, harder to define. Challenge, and invitation.

Beckett crooked his fingers, and Norrington got to his feet, tilting his head slightly as he was studied, cold eyes tracking a silent path over the long frame. A clap of the hands, and Mercer glanced into the room – then stepped out back to the corridor, closing the door after him, at a gesture. Norrington smirked.

Beckett reached into a drawer and pulled out gloves of thin leather, cream-colored in hue, and delicately pulled them on, finger by finger. A second reach into the drawer brought out a folded hand towel. He waved idly at Norrington's belt, which was removed and curled on the desk. A gesture at breeches – unlaced and pushed down to the knees. He got to his feet, and rounded the desk in a saunter, the glance at the swelling shaft under the folds of the white shirt almost clinical. Cold.

A tug at an arm, to guide the man back a step, then a hand on his shoulder, to push him down against the desk, his touch only in guidance, without force. Making it clear that any obedience would be voluntary, to within, of course, a certain definition of the word. He dipped fingers into the coat pocket, removing the coiled creance, and placed it in front of Norrington's head, on the desk, clearly where he could see it. The vial was uncorked unhurriedly, and Beckett didn't need to look down to know that he was being watched, with those entrancing green eyes.

Oil was coated over the gloves. A gesture at the coat, and it was pulled up, wordlessly, to reveal a pert rump. It was Beckett's turn to smirk, as he used a leg to pull Norrington's chair closer, to sit on. Another gesture, and Norrington's gaze turned firmly to the creance.

-cut to fit into rating. Full version can be found in beckington community, livejournal-


	3. Hunting

Author's Note: Yes, I tend to reuse ship names between my fics, even if said fics are unrelated. I also entirely blame the dark nature of this fic on the beautiful Beckett x Norrington fics that I've read to date. Also decided, after all, not to write much smex after all. Thanks again to roommate for impromptu and intensive chess crash course, from which I probably didn't really learn very much in total. XD;;

Chapter 3

Hunting

Hunting – After training is complete, the bird can now be flown free, depending on its species and whether it was raised in captivity or caught from the wild. In the case of shortwings (true hawks), they may be started on quarry right away. For game, the bird must learn to wait-on in the sky above its master until the quarry is flushed out for it to strike.

"Sparrow said he left a mark on you, just as you left a mark on him," Norrington said, mildly, as they reset pieces for their next game.

"Quite. I do feel he was worse off, in that exchange," A sip of tea, taken black. A biscuit. Norrington watched for a moment, in silence, then turned his gaze back to the chessboard.

"I saw the brand. What did he leave on you?"

"Not all marks are physical," Beckett said, finishing his tea. "Sparrow taught me some valuable lessons, about first impressions, and underestimation. I lost a ship, with its cargo, he lost a friend. I gained notoriety for my treatment of pirates, and censure from the East India Company – plus being recalled back to England for half a decade – he gained a brand that would forever mark him as an outlaw."

"A ship?"

Beckett drained the china cup dry of tea, rolling the bitter taste in his mouth. He briefly wondered what Norrington's lips would taste like. Sweet, like honey? Bitter? Salty, like the sea? He supposed he would never find out. After all, that wasn't part of their dance. No nudity featured in their sexual play, Norrington would always be in the greater state of undress, and Beckett had yet to touch the other man (outside of feeding) with bare hands. No actual rutting. Just domination framed by lust, and always only after Friday's intense games. Sometimes there would be no penetration of any sort. Sometimes only Beckett would go away satisfied (satisfaction could be measured in so many levels, above actual physical satiation).

"Choose a side," he said, ignoring the question.

Norrington pouted (briefly, but it was definitely a pout), and complied. "Black."

The white pawn before the king, two places. The black pawn on the same row, moving to block. The white knight on the right, advancing before the pawns, mirrored by black. The freed white bishop swept out to face it. The other black knight moved before the black pawns. Beckett smirked. Norrington was being aggressive.

"Two Knights Defense," he commented, as he considered his next move – he would lose his first pawn.

"Old moves can be best," Norrington shrugged.

The white knight advanced again. Beckett had played with and against this opening many times, even when he had been in London – it had in fact been the first opening whose name he had ever learned. The white bishop took a pawn, to check. In the end, he won, almost effortlessly – black had moved itself into a difficult position, overextending the King. Norrington smiled, a little wryly. "Sometimes an aggressive defense doesn't work very well."

"Perhaps not against someone too versed in its use," Beckett replied, turning the board, setting black to his side. "Again. Use my opening."

Norrington smirked, but complied. Two Knights Defense. They drew – Beckett was unused to the tactic in tournament-style play, and Norrington was unused to countering it. Beckett was the one to lean back when the game was decided. The Commodore tugged absently at his hair.

"I think I'd like to transfer."

"To?" Beckett hid his surprise, only arching an eyebrow.

"England. Perhaps the Indies." Norrington reset the board by himself. He didn't look up.

"We don't always get what we'd like," Beckett settled for another neutral reply, which veiled refusal.

"What if I run?"

"Will you?"

A pause. Long fingers reached for the lacquered box, to put back the pieces. "Sometimes it's tempting."

A smirk. "If you'd wanted to run, you could have done so, any time."

Norrington hand slipped briefly into his coat, unconsciously. Didn't meet Beckett's eyes. Then a quirk to his lips, self-deprecation. "I've been well-trained."

--

Chilled apples, sliced into cubes. Beckett held the intense green stare, up until all pieces were duly eaten, and even when Norrington began to lick at splayed fingers and the soft palm, unmarked by a sailor's life. There was a playful nip at the tip of a forefinger, then it was sucked into the warm cavern of Norrington's mouth.

Beckett ran a nail briefly over the soft tongue.

--

The warship _Sea Hawk_ was a pretty sight in the Naval part of the docks, and was visible even from his office – furled sails, fresh paint and all. Norrington's green eyes kept getting drawn to it, mesmerized. Beckett thought vaguely of the late Jack Sparrow, and the pirate's obsession with that inconveniently fast black ship. Personally, he would much rather be out in an open meadow with Caesar.

"Congratulations, Mister Norrington," Beckett said finally, when he finished the letter to New Amsterdam that he had been working on. "You are now officially a Commodore. Again. Try to restrain yourself from resigning this time."

Norrington snorted. "What's the explanation for the ship?" Terribly blunt, despite so long spent in Beckett's company.

"Given the… loss of the _Interceptor,_ as well as the _Dauntless_, His Majesty has decided to gift Port Royal with a warship," Beckett replied mildly, dipping his quill into ink and starting on another letter. Mercer was studying the map, ostensibly unconcerned with anything going on around him.

"I looked aboard the ship, Lord Beckett," Norrington drawled. "It wasn't made for the Navy. Not at the beginning. In fact, your family crest adorns the captain's cabin." On the ceiling, carefully painted and embossed.

"My family is very supportive of the Royal Navy. We even have some cousins around in the ranks, somewhere," the quill moved. "Don't you have some duties to be getting along to?"

"You called me here," Norrington pointed out.

"Yes, to…" the quill gestured briefly at a very official-looking letter, set with the King's heavy wax seal, "Give you the paperwork that proves you are, indeed, capable of the Commodore's office."

"Why the ship?" Norrington pressed, as tenacious as a terrier when he set his mind to it.

Beckett looked up. His lip quirked. "What's the fun of hunting with a hawk whose wings are clipped, Commodore?"

An arched eyebrow. "You can hardly dictate Naval patrols, or targets."

"I don't dictate, Commodore. I merely suggest," Beckett corrected.

"And your… suggestion?"

"Some Dutch privateers are beginning to encroach upon Kingston," Beckett replied, mildly, as he signed the letter he was working on. "They grow too bold."

"I doubt we have the strength in Port Royal to repel them," Norrington said, his expression showing that he had indeed heard of such a matter.

Beckett's smile was faintly smug. Norrington blinked. Then, "That's all you're using it for? Helping the Navy?"

"What did you think I was going to use it for?"

"Sinking pirate ships. Perhaps other traders. Vessels belonging to other East India Companies – Portuguese, Dutch."

"And what do you believe would happen, if there was a mass panic over a notorious ghost ship that only sunk ships offensive to the British East India Company?"

"There would be a trade monopoly. You would win. You're stationed in the Caribbean," Norrington said uncertainly. The man even looked briefly at Mercer, as if he might be able to find some hint there.

"Ah. And, with such domination of the sea in my hand, what would happen in England?"

"What does England have to do with this?"

"Who rules England, Commodore?"

"The King."

"And who controls the Navy? And technically, all Naval aspects of the British Empire?"

Norrington blinked, slowly. "You don't want to give Him the… you think He might…"

"Obviously," Beckett said patiently. "On the other hand, I can… suggest, certain quarry, for my hawk to prey on. By all reports, this so-called _Flying Dutchman_ is submersible. No doubt its Captain can be prevailed on to aid you in a spot of perfect concealment."

"I doubt he can fire cannons underwater," Norrington was obviously saying the first thing that leaped to mind, as he grasped for equilibrium. Even the comment about 'my' hawk passed over his head.

"I'm sure he has other means of attack, with a submersible ship," Beckett said dryly. "I'd be sure to ask him to think of something, if it makes you any happier."

"Domination over the sea. Ostensibly via an alliance with the Commodore of Port Royal, who has inexplicably acquired a taste for sinking vessels of rival East India Companies?" Dry.

"Technically, we are at war with them," Beckett replied mildly. "Hostilities over overlapping territories, little inconveniences to both sides. And you need not sink all of them. After a while, simply scaring them off should be sufficient to ensure a trade monopoly in Jamaica."

"What do I get out of this?" Norrington's lips were curved into a half-smile. Obviously, the man didn't expect any real answer.

He didn't get one, or indeed any facetious answer about how it might add to his fame, reputation, and rank. "What do hawks get, from hunting?"

--

With the Commodore now often gone on duties at sea, Beckett found himself becoming quickly bored, again. Redeveloping the sad excuse for a racecourse and the jumps course had only managed to occupy a week of his time. He missed the chess games, and dinners, and often found himself distracted at work.

Mercer somehow managed, unasked for, to locate books. Chess, trade, falconry. He was sent to Tortuga, Barbados, Havana. Information. Stolen. Each time the _Sea Hawk_ and its Naval accompaniment returned to Port Royal, there would be a new, written set of 'suggestions', delivered to the Commodore's desk. Norrington would smirk, and start charting his next course.

The hawk stayed at roost in the East India Company mansion. Occasionally, Governor Swann would suggest some affordable, attractive real estate options, which would be wryly but politely refused. Well-trained. During the couple of weeks that the ships were in Port Royal for resupply and refitting, Friday blitz sessions would be an all-day, exhausting affair, each game blurring into the other. Beckett would spend hours simply attempting variations of one move – bishop to threaten, or traps on castling. Norrington would advance pawns, to one side of the chessboard, in an inexorable tide.

As expected, Davy Jones was, if rather irritably, amenable to the idea of invisible underwater combat, coordinating with some manner of signals with the notorious Pirate Hunter. Beckett wasn't sure about the details, and didn't much care, but it apparently involved firing a steel spear, like a harpoon, to puncture the keel of the victim, or an amphibious crew wrecking havoc by climbing up into the gun deck. The tales of daring, swashbuckling combat where the Commodore went in outnumbered but emerged victorious spread, as did the reign of English Naval superiority in Jamaica. The British East India Company quietly but firmly increased its foothold, based in Port Royal.

The mansion soon expanded to include another department, in a converted villa further away from the harbor, for work that was not administrative in nature. Beckett sometimes smirked as he received commendations from England. Norrington was apparently slated for an Admiralty, or even a Knighthood.

Occasionally Beckett wondered where Miss Swann and her paramour were, or whatever they were doing so far away in Cathay. He didn't much care, but Governor Swann was becoming quite visibly thinner, as was the man's temper.

--

He got his answer one day when the heart crumbled to dust, abruptly, within the bag. When he shot to his feet, Mercer turned, eyes questioning. "Recall Norrington," Beckett said sharply.

Only when Mercer had left, and for a while, did Beckett tear his eyes away from the sea, and sink back into his chair. His jaw twitched, as he took long, shuddering breaths, speculating on exactly when had he learned again to worry about another human being.

--

The _Sea Hawk_ limped back to Port Royal, listing heavily in the water, all but shot to pieces. Of her normal escort of two, only one ship remained, though it had fared somewhat better. Beckett stood in the balcony of his office, his hands white-knuckled on the rail, watching as they docked. He didn't turn when Mercer entered, dusty and slightly tattered, dark stains on his coat that looked suspiciously like other people's blood, to give his report in his inflectionless voice.

The Pirate Hunter had cornered the notorious Captain Dimas Eduardo, in a set of islands near Spanish territory proper, and his luck had run out. Although the Spanish privateer's flagship was destroyed, both sides took heavy losses. The deck of the _Sea Hawk_ was still liberally painted in crimson.

Norrington had survived, if barely, and miraculously – he had been too close to cannon fire, and suffered burns and shrapnel wounds to his side, which had gotten infected on the way back. He was currently being treated at the fort.

Beckett bowed his head. Mercer listed a series of names, and when they were slated to visit. People to avoid. There would be space, during dinner.

--

He set his jaw as he was ushered into the sickroom. The injuries had been deemed too severe for Norrington to return, as yet, to his actual place of residence. Beckett sat in the only chair of the tiny room (bed, chair, dresser) and looked at the still form – the only sign of life the barely moving chest. Norrington's eyes were closed, and his brow was drawn into that little frown. The long frame Beckett had often covertly admired, over the dinner table, at chess, while fencing, was swathed in bandages.

Half-lidded eyes. Beckett knew he was brooding, and was unable to stop himself. He blinked, when Norrington stirred a little, head shifting, untied hair getting lost in the folds of the pillow.

His voice was slurred, in his sleep. "King takes bishop."

Beckett arched an eyebrow, and then shook his head, wryly.

--

One week for the fever to break, and Norrington was moved back to the mansion, upon his own request (despite Governor Swann's suggestion and offer of his own, quieter and more palatial residence). Beckett ignored the dirty looks from the old man, and even managed to prevent himself from resenting the daughter, wherever she was. Like himself, Miss Swann had only done what she had felt was most appropriate for the situation, and in fact he had been rather amused at her brash courage, over that of her fiancé's, so much of a surprise from a member of her sex.

Norrington was only ever conscious for brief spells. He managed, however, to smirk, when Beckett let himself into the room one night. "Bad luck." The smooth voice was a rasp.

Beckett sat at the edge of the bed. The room was relatively large, and comfortable, but not to the point of luxury. The four poster bed was unadorned, though the sheets were of crisp linen and the mattress was soft. Thick, plain blue rugs over the wood-paneled floor. A mirror, a dresser, a bookshelf, a wardrobe, a desk, a chair, all in heavy oak furniture. No paintings. A view of the harbor. He didn't apologize – instead, he looked down at the patterns of fur on the rug. "Mercer reached you too late."

"He helped on the… the way back. Found us somehow. We were boarded. Privateers." Norrington closed his eyes, taking in slow breaths. "He fights like a demon."

"He'd take that as a compliment," Beckett replied dryly. Mercer was just outside, and his ears were preternaturally sharp. No doubt the man would be pleased – as much as he could be pleased about anything.

"Miss Swann succeeded?"

"No doubt. The heart crumbled."

Norrington glanced up to the ceiling. "Bad luck."

Beckett was silent.

"Give me a few days. Then I want to play chess."

"I won't go easy on a sick man."

Norrington snorted.

--

Norrington's condition improved with alacrity once he was past the fever. Still in his prime, and fit. Soon he was sitting up by himself, and demanding that his work be brought to him from the fort. The bedchambers got crowded, with papers and visiting subordinates. Doctor's orders that he convalesce quietly were summarily dismissed.

Mercer noted that the defeat – or technically, a draw, or perhaps even a tentative win – against the Spanish Privateer hadn't managed to dent Norrington's reputation, though as word got out that the Hunter had been injured, pirates became a little bolder. Not all of the newly gained ground could be kept. Beckett meditated on gambits, and the problems of a far too aggressive bid for central control. Norrington worked on an efficient use of bishops, with a Queen defense.

Slower games, the board set up on the bed, and no blitz, despite the Commodore's thinly veiled hints that he was definitely up to the task.

In less time than was medically estimated, the Commodore could walk again, if slowly, and having to stop occasionally for breaks. Rituals at dinner were resumed, as if they had never left off.

Occasionally Norrington would ask, a little offhandedly, about various surnames. Death in the performance of duty. More people to avoid on the street. Questions of fault. Beckett felt that he personally no longer seemed to have much of a conscience, compared to the over-burgeoning one of his hawk. Mercer was not bothered for information.

Norrington began to develop his endgame, Beckett, his counters.

--

Elizabeth Swann and William Turner arrived, thinner, older, and filthy, on a small sloop. Governor Swann's joy was so great it could likely bowl over less well-constructed buildings. Norrington avoided the couple, confining himself to duties at the fort, and other duties at the mansion, with the occasional trip to the harbor, leading Beckett to speculate on the nature of their last parting. The Turners, for their part, avoided the both of them, which suited him fine.

Reports of sightings of a black ship, with black sails, made Beckett purse his lips as he studied the confidential dispatch. Eventually, he summoned Norrington, who arrived garbed in his semi-formal administrative-work uniform (wig, hat, lighter coat, no inner coat, thinner cravat), and passed it to him. Words were studied, and then the Commodore glanced at him, in a silent question. A hawk, waiting for the command to fly.

"What do you think?" Beckett allowed himself to slouch a little in his chair.

Norrington looked back down at the letter. "That he has the most damnable luck."

"Quite."

"The compass?"

Beckett shrugged. Somehow, the driving urge to possess such a curiosity had died, perhaps along with the crumbling heart in the drawer. "Leave it be. Concentrate on rebuilding. The Dutch are pushing their boundaries."

A wry smile. "Aren't you only supposed to give suggestions?"

A shrug, then a different tack. "They'd be getting married."

"You're not invited," Dry.

A smirk. "I'd be surprised if I were. Are you?"

"Yes, but I feel it was more due to the intervention of the father, rather than any inclination on the part of the Turners."

"Sparrow may come."

"I know." Again, that silent question.

"Just make sure he doesn't do anything too outrageous." With the heart gone, and unsteady borders, Beckett needed the continuing support of Governor Swann – who at least rather grudgingly accepted that the trade monopoly, based in Port Royal, was good for said Port, despite bad blood between the cause of it and his daughter.

"That certainly didn't sound like a suggestion."

Beckett smirked, and indicated that Norrington close the door.

Later he arched against his chair, with a soft curse, as he spent himself in the warm throat. Gloved hands jerked, from where they cupped Norrington's skull, and knocked over the Commodore's hat.

--

More ships from around Jamaica – British privateers, with East India Company pardons. Strings pulled, men ready to serve under the flag and reputation of the infamous Pirate Hunter. Boundaries held. More commendations from London.

The master never watched the hawk take flight, confident it would return. Their games got a little more inventive. So did the chess.

Often, Beckett chose black.

-fin-


End file.
